


The Arch

by FabulaRasa



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-16
Updated: 2010-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:56:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my historical imagining of how, exactly, that Arch came to be in the department of Mysteries, and just where (and when ) it came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Arch

‎**493 BCE ‎  
‎283 ab urbe condita‎  
Corioli**

‎"Dominus."‎

The stern-eyed man turned from his survey of the city below. "What is it now, Valerius?"‎

‎"Accus and Flavius are wondering whether they ought to curb the men now, Dominus."‎

The man cocked his head thoughtfully at the rising columns of smoke, listening to the ‎distant shouts and yells. He narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly. "Give them another ‎hour, then sound the call to camp. Only what they can carry in their hands, all booty to be ‎inspected by their commanding officer. Then burn what's left."‎

‎"Yes, Dominus." The younger man examined the turf at his feet, shifting slightly.‎

‎"Well? What else?" He scowled and watched as flames began to lick the base of the ‎ruined wall nearest his vantage point.‎

‎"There is a problem at one of the temples, Dominus."‎

‎"Oh?"‎

‎"Yes, Dominus." He swallowed. "One of the smaller temples, by the city wall. Quite a ‎small one, actually, but with some substantial treasures nonetheless. Only one old priest ‎was left guarding the temple. I suppose the rest must have fled."‎

‎"Valerius. If there is a point, may we arrive at it?"‎

‎"Yes, Dominus. The priest has. . . done something with some of Trebonius's men."‎

The general frowned. "By the twins, I haven't time for this. What do you mean, done ‎something? Speak plainly."‎

‎"Yes, of course, Dominus. What I mean to say is, three of Trebonius's men have ‎disappeared."‎

‎"Let me understand you. An old priest has done away with three of our men, and you are ‎standing here asking me what is to be done?"‎

Valerius shifted again. "I'm afraid you misunderstand me, Dominus. He hasn't so much ‎done away with them, as. . . well, it's a little difficult to explain."‎

The general crossed his arms. "Try."‎

‎"Yes, Dominus. Several of Trebonius's men were. . . securing the valuables—"‎

‎"Looting."‎

‎"Yes, Dominus. And they rushed this little temple, which apparently was quite mean and ‎small, and just one old priest shouting at them, and they found the treasury, which, ‎strange to say, wasn't even locked. In fact, it didn't even have a door at all, not properly ‎speaking – only an embroidered curtain in front of it, which was tied back, you see, ‎Dominus, so they could see the temple treasury quite clearly."‎

‎"Temple treasury," the general snorted. "Bowls of rotting fruit, three otter skins, and ‎Apollo's golden arse wipe, more like."‎

‎"Yes, Dominus. Anyway, the priest began shouting at them not to go in there, that they ‎would be sorry if they did – you know, the sort of blather priests always spout when ‎somebody's about to lay hands on their money. And one of the men went in, of course, ‎and. . . vanished."‎

The general uncrossed his arms. "What did you say, Valerius?"‎

‎"He vanished, Dominus. Right into thin air. The other men thought it was some sort of ‎trick, so they followed him. And they vanished, too. It was a tiny room, barely large ‎enough to turn around in. They couldn't have hidden anywhere, Dominus. The fourth ‎man was so terrified he grabbed the priest and ran straight here, to find me. He's my ‎sister's son, Dominus." He dared a glance, and mistook the general's silence for ‎incredulity. "He's not the sort to make up stories, Dominus, not at all. He's got quite a ‎level head on him, and there is something. . . odd about this old man. And if he's been ‎assaulting Roman soldiers. . ."‎

‎"Bring him here."‎

Valerius hesitated. "My nephew, Dominus?"‎

‎"No, you imbecile. The priest."‎

‎"Yes, Dominus. Right away."‎

Valerius trotted hastily away and returned within minutes, gripping an ancient little man ‎by the forearm, half hauling, half dragging him up the bluff to his commander. He ‎released him, and the trembling man fell to the ground, clutching his brightly coloured ‎garment about him.‎

‎"On your feet, priest. His excellency wishes to speak to you."‎

The tiny priest, who appeared to be well over a hundred, took his time arranging himself, ‎glancing quickly from the general to his adjutant and back again. There was a sharp gleam ‎in the watery blue eyes, and, the general noted with irritation, very little fear, despite his ‎elaborate show of it.‎

‎"Well?" he began. "I hear you have been playing a priest-trick on some of my men. ‎Produce them at once, you fraudulent, vermin-ridden wretch, and perhaps I shall let you ‎live. Otherwise I shall have you run though and stuck on a stake outside your pathetic ‎temple with the rest of your brethren."‎

The priest straightened and met his gaze. There was a little smile tucked in the long beard. ‎‎"I don't think you will, my friend. I think you will want to hear what I have to say."‎

The general grunted, as displeased by the little man's excellent Latin as by his insolence ‎of manner. He laid his hand on his sword hilt. "Your lips will be less impertinent when ‎they are swallowing iron. Tell me where my men are before I spit you."‎

The priest smiled serenely. "You burn and loot and destroy that which you have not ‎made, and which your plodding minds cannot understand. You root in the mud and ‎know not the difference between rat's turds and emeralds. This city holds the greatest ‎treasure known to mankind, and you would tear it apart without a moment's thought. ‎You are like children, and like children the gods will punish you. You are thugs and ‎brutes and bullies, and there is in you no spark of the divine, no yearning for beauty, no ‎love of anything but your own petty, shallow lusts."‎

The adjutant dropped his eyes in horror, wondering if he was expected to run the priest ‎through at once or if his commander would want the satisfaction of doing it himself. He ‎lifted his eyes in surprise when he heard the general's calm answering voice.‎

‎"No, old man," he was saying. "You are quite wrong. It is true that we are a people with ‎little use for the womanish refinements you treasure. But we do indeed love something ‎that is worth loving, and that you have little of. We love power, and we will have it. We ‎love the uses of power, and we know her ways as you do not. We serve power, and she is ‎a harsh, but beautiful mistress."‎

‎"Ah," the priest replied, narrowing his eyes. He gave a slight nod. "So that is it, then. ‎Very good. If it is power you want, I can give you more power than you have ever ‎dreamed of."‎

The general's hand flexed on his sword hilt. "How?"‎

The priest glanced at Valerius. "Privately. What I have to say is for your ears alone."‎

‎"As you wish, old man." The general gripped the little man by the forearm and dragged ‎him some feet away from his adjutant and the little knot of officers behind him. Valerius ‎strained to hear. He watched the priest lean close, whispering something, watched his ‎commander rear back in astonishment.‎

‎"How?" He caught the word quite clearly on the evening breeze. The unmistakable stench ‎of burning flesh was beginning to crinkle in his nostrils now.‎  
‎ ‎  
The priest leaned close again, and now his commander was nodding and frowning, asking ‎something. They continued in huddled conference for some time. Valerius edged as near ‎as he dared, but could hear nothing further.‎

When they were done, his commander released the priest's arm and walked back to his ‎adjutant, white-faced and grim. He glanced at Valerius, but did not meet his eyes. "Tell ‎Trebonius and his men to take the doorway."‎

‎"To. . . do what, Dominus?"‎

‎"Take it. Remove it from the wall. Leave the masonry around it in place, but remove the ‎archway. Use bars – it shouldn't be that difficult. These people know nothing of ‎architecture, that much should be obvious. Use an oxcart to drag it to the camp, and place ‎it under guard beside my tent. Select your best men for this task, Valerius. I want you ‎personally to supervise Trebonius's men in this. Under no circumstances are any of the ‎men to pass under that arch. And make sure none of those oafs touches anything in that ‎temple treasury once the arch is removed. Do you understand me?"‎

‎"Yes, Dominus."‎

The general was gone in a swirl of scarlet-fringed cloak, striding quickly down toward the ‎camp. "Dominus!" he called after him.‎

‎"What is it, Valerius?"‎

‎"What shall I do with the priest?"‎

He waved his hand. "Kill him."‎

 

‎

* * *

 

‎**330 CE ‎  
‎1106 ab urbe condita‎  
Rome**

 

The fat man mopped his brow with a square of linen cloth and scratched another note on ‎his parchment. The heat was beginning to tell on him. If only wool were not considered ‎the only proper material for a toga, he might stand a chance of appearing like less of a ‎used sponge before his immaculately groomed emperor.‎

‎"What of these things here, Tullus?"‎

‎"Oh, I wouldn't worry with those crates, Augustus. I don't think there will be anything ‎you want in there."‎

‎"Oh?" The handsome man, whose toga was exactly as he had draped it eight hours ‎before, turned his head. "What is in those?"‎

‎"Just odds and ends, Augustus. Bits and pieces brought back from our military conquests. ‎Some of them quite old, actually. It says here. . ." he shuffled through several scrolls ‎tucked underneath his arm. "Ah. Here we go," he said, opening one and hastily scanning ‎it. "Yes, yes. Military booty from the Italian wars, Augustus. As I said, I don't think ‎there will be anything you will want in there."‎

But the emperor was not listening to him. He had already begun to wander the dusty, dim ‎aisle of the storehouse, running a meditative finger along the wooden crates, pausing to ‎examine the markings on some of them. "Fascinating," he was murmuring.‎

Tullus dropped a scroll and swore, crouching on his hands and knees to retrieve it as it ‎rolled underneath a crate. "Oh, Numa's balls," he sighed. ‎

‎"Tullus? Can you decipher these markings?" The emperor's voice was two aisles over at ‎least. His fingers closed around the scroll and several piles of sticky dust, and he ‎hurriedly straightened and trotted over to where the emperor was frowning at an ‎enormous crate, taller than he was. ‎

‎"Oh. Um. Well." Tullus squinted at the markings, comparing them to the scroll open in his ‎hands. "According to this, it's part of the booty from the campaign of Gnaeus Marcius, ‎afterwards Coriolanus, against the Volsci and their city of Corioli."‎

‎"Ah, yes," the emperor murmured. "Coriolanus. Brilliant strategist. I had to study him in ‎school, though I won't hold it against him now." He rested a hand against the side of the ‎crate. "But that was almost seven hundred years ago. Do you men to say that this has ‎been here. . ." He frowned more deeply. ‎

‎"Well, Augustus, there is certainly seven hundred years' worth of dust on it," Tullus said ‎with distaste.‎

‎"Yes," he replied absently. "Yes, you're right there. What a thing it would be, Tullus, to ‎have something of Coriolanus in my new city."‎

Tullus looked up from his parchment with a look of apprehension. "Oh, Augustus, I don't ‎think. . ."‎

‎"My city," the emperor resumed, as though there had been no interruption. "And what a ‎city it will be, Tullus. A new wonder of the world. My city, all of shining marble, its ‎columns of porphyry and carnelian and alabaster. . . what a thing it will be. Men will ‎speak of it in wonder for thousands of years to come, my friend. They will write poetry ‎about it, they will sing songs of it, men will tell their children and their children's children ‎that once they saw the queen of cities." The emperor was lost in his reverie now, his eyes ‎far away, his voice soft. "And it will bear my name, this new Rome. It will be my city, ‎mine alone. None of theirs. . ."‎

Abruptly he came back to himself. He patted the crate. "Add this to the others, Tullus. ‎Doubtless it is some magnificent statue confiscated from one of the Volscian temples, or ‎some such thing. It will fit on the next shipment. I want my city to have as much of her ‎glorious heritage about her as we can haul across the sea." He brushed a bit of dust off his ‎gleaming toga. "You are right, Tullus. This place is a mess. We shall both be inhaling ‎healing herbs for a month to get the dust of this place out of our noses." He clapped a ‎hand on his retainer's back. "Come, Tullus, let us call it a day. I don't know about you, ‎but I am in the mood for a cold drink and some fresh air."‎

‎"Oh yes, Augustus," he said with relief. "That sounds lovely." He made a final notation ‎on his parchment and extracted a red-tipped stylus from the fold of his tunic. He hastily ‎scratched a bright red mark on the side of the crate and bustled after the emperor, who ‎was waiting impatiently at the door. ‎

 

‎

* * *

‎**1453 CE‎  
‎2229 ab urbe condita‎  
Constantinople**

‎"Your majesty, please, there is no time."‎

‎"No." The emperor wiped his sweating brow, breathing hard. "No." He collapsed for a ‎moment against the wall and closed his eyes. A trickle of blood mingled with sweat ran ‎down the side of his face, and Theophilus winced to see it. ‎

‎"Your majesty, this section of the wall will be down in fifteen minutes. Maybe less. There ‎is no more time. You must come with me." A great roar rose from the outer wall, and ‎black smoke was thick in their lungs.‎

‎"No. I will go down with the wall, if need be. They may take the shreds of my empire, ‎they may take my city, but me they will not take." The slim young man hefted the sword ‎again and ran his arm across his brow. ‎

Theophilus nodded, his eyes grave. "You are worthy of your namesake, my lord."‎

‎"No," the emperor said, yet again. "I am a pale shadow of all of them, Theophilus. We are ‎but shadows, in a shadow city. But when shadows are all you have, even they can be ‎worth dying for." Another roar sounded, and distant screams. "Most Holy Mother of ‎God, save us," he whispered.‎

‎"Most Holy Mother of God, forgive me," Theophilus murmured in response, and lifting ‎his sword arm, brought it down with all his might on the head of his emperor. ‎

The young man crumpled in a graceful heap, and Theophilus bent and scooped him ‎effortlessly onto his shoulders, shifting his weight until he found his balance. He started ‎slowly down the narrow stairs on the inner wall, then was struck with a thought. Carried ‎like this, the blood and soot-streaked emperor was indistinguishable from the rest of the ‎soldiers. Theophilus might have been just another man carrying a wounded comrade to ‎the temporary refuge of the city below, but for one thing: the purple boots. Only the ‎emperor was entitled to this footwear, and they were a surer sign of his royal status than ‎crown or jeweled pallium. Swearing, Theophilus tugged them off and tossed them behind ‎him. ‎

He made his careful way through the press of bodies on the stairs over the Gate of ‎Xylokerkos, making sure the emperor's cloak fell forward, covering his face. Down, ‎down he went, off the great land walls erected by Theodosius himself, the massive, ‎unbreachable walls that had been the city's surest defence after the mantle of the Mother ‎of God herself. He spared not a glance for the blue domes of Blachernae, or the wail that ‎rose to meet him as he descended into the city. Women ran with frightened faces, men ‎dragged the wounded, children cried for their parents. Theophilus looked neither to right ‎nor left at Constantinople's last hours, but picked his steady way through the throng, sure ‎of his path. ‎

At the door of the church of St. Theodosia, he stopped, and rested against the high lintel, ‎panting. His younger cousin might be smaller, but he was dense with muscle, and not as ‎light as he looked. Theophilus shifted him and pushed the heavy cypress door in, ‎unsurprised to find it open. In these last days, all the churches in the city had been open, ‎day and night, and the candles had flickered endlessly as the greatest city in Christendom ‎pled for its salvation. ‎

He stumbled down the stairs that led to the crypt. The women sobbing quietly on their ‎knees in front of an icon of the Pantocrator ignored him, and he set his mouth at the ‎sound of their useless rustlings and snivelings, and at he useless, merciful eyes that stared ‎back at him from the icon. It struck him that tomorrow was the church's patronal feast, ‎the feast of St. Theodosia. Sending a curse heavenward to her, he shoved through the ‎narrow door at the bottom of the stairs.‎

‎"What are you doing?" Startled, an old monk rose from his knees, prayer-rope in hand. ‎‎"This is no place for the wounded."‎

‎"Out of the way, old man. Do you know who this is?" And he lifted the edge of the ‎cloak that hid his cousin's face. The monk's eyes widened, and he crossed himself. ‎

‎"St. Theodosia, save us," he murmured. "What have you done?"‎

‎"What I had to do," he gasped. "Where is it?"‎

The monk froze. "Where is what?"‎

‎"Don't play the idiot with me!" he roared, not caring who heard. "Where is it? Where is ‎the arch?"‎

The monk paled. "The arch. . . how do you know about that?"‎

‎"Never mind that now. You damnable monks – what good are your secrets now? I carry ‎the blood of the purple on my back, and I would save it from the infidel's filthy claws! ‎Do you want them to find him? Do you want them to desecrate his body?"‎

The monk blinked at him. "But. . . he is not dead."‎

‎"Of course not, you imbecile. This is his only chance not to be before nightfall. Will you ‎help me?"‎

The monk searched his eyes, then nodded. "This way."‎

Theophilus followed him through a winding passageway behind a rotting door, down ‎through crypts that reeked of the dead, stumbling over what filth he did not want to ‎know. There was only darkness and stench. At last he stumbled into an open space, and ‎the monk waved his hand at a torch on the wall. It sprang to life. ‎

‎"How. . ."‎

‎"Never mind that now." The monk's manner was all business. "You are sure about this?"‎

‎"Yes."‎

With another wave of his hand, the torches in the rest of the room leaped and blazed. ‎Now Theophilus could see the arch in the center of the room, and the faded embroidered ‎curtain hanging from it that swayed as if in a breeze. "Dear God. . ." he muttered.‎

Above them was a distant rumble and crash. He did not have to speculate what it was. ‎The nearest section of wall must have fallen, almost on top of their heads. The first ‎breach, then. ‎

‎"Hurry," he said to the monk. "Take his legs." Together they hoisted the emperor off ‎Theophilus's shoulders, cradling him between them. They paused in front of the arch. ‎Theophilus glanced up and met the monk's eyes, and strangely enough found something ‎in them that strengthened him. He set his jaw. "On my count, then. One, two. . ."‎

‎"Mmm. Cousin?" The emperor cracked a woozy eye. "What. . ."‎

God forgive me, he thought. "Now!" he cried, and with all his strength he hurled his ‎cousin though the archway, bracing himself for the crack of skull on stone that never ‎came, for the angry protests and groans. There was only silence, and when he dared to ‎look, the tattered veil in the arch was fluttering closed. There was only bare stone behind ‎it. ‎

Theophilus sank to his knees. He had done it. God forgive him, but he had done it. ‎

‎"He does, my son," came a gentle voice, and a soft hand on his head. "He does."‎

‎

* * *

‎**1919 CE‎  
Istanbul**

‎"Oh, for the love of all that's holy. Will you look at that?" The portly man stepped ‎gingerly around a pile of muck on the cobbled street. "Not three feet out the door, and ‎my shoes are ruined. This place is revolting." He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and ‎began to scrub at the bottom of his trousers. "White. I had to pack white suits. I thought ‎it would be refreshingly cool. How was I to know I was taking ship for a cesspool?" ‎Disgusted, he tossed the ruined handkerchief on top of a barrel of rotten figs. "Animals."‎

The other man beside him said nothing, but smiled gently. "Lucky for you, Farleigh, no ‎one around here speaks English."‎

‎"Oh yes, that's just a stroke of good fortune," Farleigh said bitterly. "I'm just so bloody ‎lucky that I have to shout and wave my arms about to make myself understood when all I ‎want is a decent meal made out of something recognisable."‎

‎"Do you think the shouting helps?" the other man asked innocently, and Farleigh shot ‎him a sharp glance. ‎

‎"That's enough of your cheek. I agreed to have you along on this because you might ‎prove useful, but that doesn't mean I have to put up with your impudence. And yes, I ‎think the shouting helps. It's all these half-civilised barbarians do understand. Oh come ‎on, don't dawdle there."‎

The other man had paused to buy a ripe pomegranate, and was tipping his hat to the ‎ancient swaddled woman at the barrel.‎

‎"Now, pay attention. We've got work to do this morning, and I want this over with ‎quickly. This country's in turmoil, and we're here to put it right. There's a passel of stuff ‎Sir Louis wants attended to, and we need to start with the valuables."‎

‎"The valuables?"‎

‎"Oh, don't be thick. This whole place is a wreck. Our troops everywhere, and while I can ‎speak for our boys, I wouldn't trust those Frogs further'n I could chuck 'em. They'll be ‎looting every museum and church in the city if we don't keep a sharp eye out. The best ‎thing we can do is clear out some of the more valuable items and send them off for ‎safekeeping."‎

‎"Safekeeping?"‎

‎"Are you hard of hearing today? Yes, safekeeping. British Museum's the safest place in ‎the world. Where better? And with Frogs poking about the city, and Ataturk moving ‎west from Ankara for all we know, and hysterical Greeks and Armenians running about ‎like chickens with their heads off – well, we'd best get these valuables secured as soon as ‎possible." He sidestepped another puddle of muck and made a face. "Honestly, why do ‎they even bother paving the place?"‎

‎"Actually, they didn't," his companion supplied. "This particular street was paved in the ‎time of Constantine XI Dragases, the last emperor of Constantinople. The city was ‎beginning to disintegrate in his day – well, long before it, actually – what with the loss of ‎revenue and the Turks harrying them from every side. When a building would fall in, they ‎would often break up the stones to use as paving. So there's no telling how old these ‎cobbles could be. Just think of it, Farleigh. We could be treading on stones that go all the ‎way back to the city's founder, Constantine the Great."‎

‎"Oh, hurrah. I'm tingling with joy. Are you quite finished? Come on, it's just through ‎here." The man called Farleigh pushed a rickety door open, and they found themselves in ‎a gigantic warehouse. Rotting fish and worse assaulted their nostrils. "Faugh," he choked. ‎‎"Have you got a pocket handkerchief?"‎

The other man fished his out and handed it over, settling himself on a crate. He picked at ‎his pomegranate and watched while Farleigh began a balletic series of gesticulations with ‎the supervisor of the warehouse, a sloe-eyed young man who regarded him with ‎astonishment.‎

‎"Puttee in box-es," Farleigh was shouting, as loudly and slowly as possible, flapping his ‎pudgy arms. The young man looked equally puzzled and alarmed. ‎

‎"Oh for heaven's sake. I give up," Farleigh sighed, and collapsed back onto a crate, ‎fanning himself with his hat. "Those wagons will be here in one hour's time, and I'm ‎damned if I know how to get these rotters moving. Diddlemore, why don't you do make ‎yourself useful for a change and get off your damned arse?"‎

‎"Dumbledore," he replied. "But you know that, Fartleigh." He rose and brushed the ‎remains of the pomegranate off his trousers. "I'm so very sorry," he began in impeccable ‎Turkish, extending his hand. "My companion is not well. He is Sir Louis Mallet's second ‎cousin once removed, and the ambassador thought it would do him good to get out of the ‎sanitarium and have a change of scene. The obligations of family, you know. You mustn't ‎mind him."‎

The young man craned his neck around and watched Farleigh fan himself. His gaze ‎changed from hostile to pitying. "Of course," he said softly. "We have one in our family, ‎as well. My great-uncle Mehmet."‎

‎"Then you know how it is," he said with a little smile.‎

‎"Naturally. Once, my great uncle Mehmet believed he was a howler monkey and tried to ‎crawl up my aunt Akasma's skirts." He gave a rueful laugh.‎

‎"Dumbledore! What's he saying there?"‎

‎"He says he's very sorry for putting you to so much trouble, and they'll prepare the ‎shipment right away."‎

‎"Oh. That's better then." Farleigh grunted, and resumed wiping sweat from his beefy ‎neck. He watched as Dumbledore led the young man away with a gentle hand on his arm, ‎gesturing toward the jumble of vases and statues and bric-a-brac. Farleigh sighed and ‎settled himself. Dumbledore might be a damned nuisance to have underfoot, and he ‎might not fully understand why on God's green earth Sir Louis had been so hell-bent that ‎he drag Dumbledore to Istanbul with him, but at least the younger man's skill with the ‎natives had come in useful on more than one occasion. He certainly seemed to have a ‎rapport, not that this raised him in Farleigh's estimation. Precisely the opposite, actually. ‎Doubtless it was for the sake of this Diddlemore's language ability that the ambassador ‎had been so insistent about taking him along. Certainly it couldn't have been a lack of ‎faith in his own diplomatic abilities. ‎

The young man was shrugging, his fine-boned face taut and troubled.‎

‎"Yes, yes, I know what it is they want," he said bitterly. "My country is dying, and the ‎vultures descend. It is always the same."‎

‎"Yes. Yes, I'm afraid it is. Tell me, what is your name?"‎

‎"I am Cahil."‎

‎"My name is Albus."‎

‎"Your name does not sound like the others."‎

‎"No."‎

‎"I do not think you are like the others."‎

Dumbledore extracted his pomegranate from his pocket and broke off a ruby cluster of ‎seeds, tonguing them thoughtfully. "No," he said at last. "I'm not." Wordlessly he broke ‎off another cluster and pressed it into the young man's hand. They sucked their seeds in ‎silence. ‎

‎"I cannot stop Farleigh and his kind," Dumbledore said at last. "But I can stop them from ‎doing too much damage. Cahil, listen to me. Do you trust me?"‎

He nodded slowly, warily.‎

‎"Then if there is anything here that you think would be safer with me than with that ‎man—" he gestured to Farleigh, who was waving wildly at invisible flies—"you should ‎let me know, and I will see to it that it is kept safe."‎

Cahil studied his bit of pomegranate, revolving it in his hands.‎

‎"Cahil. Can you think of such a thing?"‎

‎"Can you think of why I should tell you, if I could?"‎

Dumbledore broke off another cluster, gently, so as not to rupture it. "I can think," he ‎said quietly, "of one or two reasons." He pressed the delicate cluster of berries into ‎Cahil's warm brown hand, and let his thumb linger for just a moment, but long enough to ‎catch the younger man's stillness of breath. He let Cahil watch him as he pretended to ‎study his fruit.‎

‎"There is one thing," the young man said finally. "You must come with me. And you ‎must swear to me you will put it somewhere safe."‎

Dumbledore met his eyes. "I swear. If I have to create a place just for such a treasure, I ‎will do it. And I think you believe that I keep my promises."‎

‎"Yes," Cahil reflected. "I think that I do."‎

‎

* * *

**‎1996 CE‎  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**

Severus Snape ran a reflective finger down the little book's last page. The sepia ink on the ‎flyleaf contained one final note: ‎

_Arch brought to England by A.D._ ‎

And on the next line: _Department of Mysteries established, December 1919. A.D. first ‎curator._‎

An abrupt ending. He closed the little suede-bound volume that nestled in the hand so ‎satisfyingly. "Annales Arcus et Peregrinationes," the title page proclaimed in faint hand-‎written letters. The History of the Arch and Its Travels. He tapped its soft time-worn ‎cover, lost in thought.‎


End file.
